


when you are a still day; when you are a hurricane

by deiectus



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Character Development, Ethics, Gen, Identity Issues, Introspection, Konoha Village, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Post-Canon, Post-War, Psychological Trauma, Series Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-02-21 17:14:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2476025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deiectus/pseuds/deiectus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deeply influenced by his time in Izanami, and with the aim of returning to the orphanage, Kabuto surrenders to the Allied Forces at the end of the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this was initially supposed to be just amusing and bumbling, then it turned hella serious, and now it’s overly-philosophical and melodramatic BUT (hopefully) with happy endings. enjoy. xo
> 
> the story’s title loosely comes from the poem “mouthful of forevers” by clementine von radics.

 

 

> " _Further, the state is by nature clearly prior to the family and to the individual, since the whole is of necessity prior to the part; for example, if the whole body be destroyed, there will be no foot or hand, except in an equivocal sense, as we might speak of a stone hand; for when destroyed the hand will be no better than that. But things are defined by their working and power; and we ought not to say that they are the same when they no longer have their proper quality, but only that they have the same name. The proof that the state is a creation of nature and prior to the individual is that the individual, when isolated, is not self-sufficing; and therefore he is like a part in relation to the whole. But he who is unable to live in society, or who has no need because he is sufficient for himself, must be either a beast or a god: he is no part of a state. A social instinct is implanted in all men by nature, and yet he who first founded the state was the greatest of benefactors. For man, when perfected, is the best of animals, but, when separated from law and justice, he is the worst of all; since armed injustice is the more dangerous, and he is equipped at birth with arms, meant to be used by intelligence and virtue, which he may use for the worst ends_."

            —Aristotle, except from _Politics_ I.II 1253a, trans. Benjamin Jowett  
                (from Richard McKeon’s _The Basic Works of Aristotle_ , twenty-sixth printing)

  

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

“What will you do now?”

Kabuto looks to his left, where Orochimaru stands, his arms crossed across his chest. Dust is slowly settling around them. Madara is dead and the Ten Tails has been sealed.

Kabuto is in sage mode in appearance only, most of his reserves having been used to revive Sasuke. He could, Kabuto supposes, call on the bit of Juugo he contains and replenish his natural energy, but the idea of it feels filthy, improper. Because of this, after healing Sasuke, Kabuto had stayed back from the fighting. He had thought of Itachi and the roles Naruto and Sasuke were playing—surely it needed to be them who defeated Madara, surely he needed to stay out of it completely. But if Kabuto were honest, he would admit that much of his decision had come from cowardice.

From where the final battle was, a mile off to the north, Kabuto can hear triumphant cheers and sobs of relief. In front of him and Orochimaru, Karin and Suigetsu are arguing about something (most likely Sasuke). Suigetsu laughs as Karin punches him, his body flawlessly shifting from solid to fluid to solid. The evening sun glints off of his skin.

Orochimaru is still waiting for Kabuto’s answer. His latest reincarnation (did he ever really die?) and the changes that time brought have taken his formers master’s unwavering attention and added to it something resembling patience. 

“I will go to the orphanage,” Kabuto says. He does not want to talk to Orochimaru, but considering he had said as much before, saying it again both answers the question and adds no new information. For a moment, his heart rate quickens. Ever the spy, ever the analyst, ever evaluating possible dangers.

“Hm,” Orochimaru says.

He is smiling (or smirking, there really has never been a difference) and the look in his eyes as he scans the shinobi army could almost be described as impressed. Kabuto would have called it appraising, or greedy, in the past, but now… now he is different, and Orochimaru is different, and a new code needs to be established before Kabuto can translate either of them. 

“Oi,” Suigetsu calls to Orochimaru, glancing warily at Kabuto for a second. “Let’s go.” Karin is tugging at his arm, pulling him toward the army (toward Sasuke) whenever she can get a firm grip.

Uncrossing his arms, Orochimaru steps forward to stand with the two of them. “I would like to learn how they did it,” he says, and in the next moment, the three are gone without so much as a look in Kabuto’s direction.

Kabuto grits his teeth and tenses his calves, physically forcing himself to stay in place. It’s not that he has any strong desire to move or that his body is trying to act on its own. He’s perfectly still and in control. What bothers him is that somewhere, some part of him aches at watching Orochimaru go, at being left behind again.

 _You’ve left your fair share_ , Kabuto thinks, and winces, remembering what he saw when stuck in Madara’s genjutsu. _I don’t want to think about it_ , he responds.

He’s been having conversations with himself a lot lately. Three years is a long time to think.

 

   

 

 

 

 

It’s depressingly easy to infiltrate the army unseen. Kabuto uses what chakra he has to change his face to a nondescript soldier, switching from nation to nation as he needs while he walks through the crowds. Before the power of the sage, he might have needed to focus to find the Kages. As he is now, their chakra signatures stand out like beacons.

When he makes it to their tent and enters, the five leaders look up at him, their glances weary but even. In the moment before he reveals himself, Kabuto wonders what they expect to hear: more congratulations? Gratitude? How _are_ the masses feeling in the aftermath? Kabuto could supply statistically likely answers for himself, but he’s suddenly struck by the urge to go up to a stranger and ask them.

He doesn’t have that luxury or that kind of time, however. He’s taken too long to think and the guards are eyeing him. 

“Please allow me a brief audience,” Kabuto says, using his own voice, and breaks the illusion. “I’m not here to fight.” Predictably, he is immediately surrounded and immobilized, his hands pulled behind his back and a kunai at his neck.

He had thought that appearing while out of sage mode would make him appear less threatening, but reconsidered, as it may also be taken as a deception. So here he was, horns and scales and all, in the middle of the shinobi army. Even though the masses were drained, Kabuto could feel the last dregs of their chakra—it was kept close, tight, ready; much like his own. The guards don’t force him to the ground, however, and though the Kages had stood in alarm, no one attacks him.

“What are you here for?” The Raikage barks. A konoha medic is wrapping one of his massive arms in bandages. When he glares at Kabuto, Kabuto remembers that the Raikage’s name is just a single letter.

“To surrender,” Kabuto answers. That would probably make the most sense to the army, and for the situation. 

The Tsuchikage, Oonoki, laughs, “Oh, good, because we were just planning on letting you slink off.”

“I want to go to the Land of Fire,” Kabuto continues. Before anyone can respond, he continues with, “I am not assuming that this request will be granted. I wanted to present myself to the Allied Forces so that further conflict might be avoided, and so you would have full disclosure of my intentions.” 

“Why should I allow you into the land’s borders?” Tsunade speaks. Kabuto turns to look at her, and even without his connection to natural energy, he can practically see the exhaustion in her bones. Absently, he thinks of what must be left of Konoha, the rebuilding still to be done. How long will she stay as Hokage, he wonders, and who will follow— 

He cuts that train of thought off abruptly.

“My first home was the orphanage on the outskirts of Konoha,” Kabuto replies. “I wish to return there.” Only a lifetime of lying keeps his voice from shaking. It is one thing to know what one wants to do and to have the conviction to seek it. It is another to share something so vulnerable, and again, another to ask for permission.

“Work there?” Tsunade asks. “Return to Konoha? You betrayed the village and facilitated Orochimaru’s invasion and murder of the Third.”

“Outside of Konoha,” Kabuto corrects, and works to keep his voice calm and submissive. His heart feels like it is fluttering inside his chest. “The orphanage received money from the village and was under its protection.” _To an extent_ , he thinks bitterly, but doesn’t amend his statement. He cannot show anger here. “I don’t know if it’s still there or if it’s still in operation somewhere else. I know that it was both a year ago.”

The Kages all stare at him.

Well, he knows they’re not staring, they’re _thinking_ , and their faces exhibit variations of thoughtful and vengeful expressions. The Kazekage, Gaara, is as eerily impassive as ever. Tsunade’s eyes burn.

Seconds tick past. Kabuto tries not to vomit.

All of this goes against the rules he has grown up with, has hammered into his skull countless times. He is placing himself in enemy hands, and informing them of his plans and intentions in explicit detail. He is not just breaking a rule; he is going against every way of survival that he knows. To say that he is terrified would be an understatement. But this is the first step, this is his decision. His life is out of his hands now.

Kabuto stands firm.

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

The Itachi he talked with in Izanami might not have truly been Itachi. It probably was some projection of his self’s understanding of Itachi, who, over the years in Kabuto’s head, evolved from enemy to rival to savior to confidant. 

At the end of the first year, when Itachi had sliced off the tip of Kabuto’s horn another countless time, Kabuto had jumped away and stood underneath a stalactite, pausing instead of attacking again. Water dripped down onto his shoulder. 

“What’s the point of going back?” He yelled, “Think of what I’ve done, of how the world thinks of me!”

“There will be a way, even if you have to make one.” Itachi raised his blade in challenge. “All of your actions were always yours.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the end, the Kages give him no decision regarding his request, but do not kill him. Kabuto is ordered to cancel his sage mode, and is strapped with shackles around his wrists, ankles, and neck. The cuffs suppress his chakra until he can barely feel it. He feels very small.

The Konoha shinobi with the cells of Hashirama—Yamato? Tenzou? Kabuto cannot remember his name, though knows that his true name is either hidden or nonexistent—creates a small wooden cage with wheels. Kabuto steps inside it, and when Yamato creates the final bars (no door), he immediately feels like an attraction at a fair. He’s not, though; he’s kept hidden—in another tent, probably camouflaged—while the army deals with other things. He can hear guards posted outside, and the whispers of those who walk by.

Kabuto sits against one of the sides of his cell and closes his eyes. Having next to no chakra is merciful in that he does not know who is outside. He does not know if he has “visitors” (spectators?) and he does not know what any of them may be thinking. He does not know who is alive. He does not know who else his actions have killed.

The solace he finds in his ignorance is, at best, willful avoidance, and he knows that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 _We are social creatures and are part of a world of community_. _We have responsibilities to each other_.

Itachi’s words fill Kabuto’s thoughts, ever-present, ever-responding—ever-living, in a sense. Kabuto had said as much when he healed Sasuke; that Itachi had influenced him so greatly, he had inherited Itachi’s wish to protect the last Uchiha.

Truthfully, Kabuto had his own wish born in himself out of homage to Itachi, and saving Sasuke’s life just happened to coincide with it.

Konoha was finally getting its seeds into him. All of the talk of the Will of Fire, of new leaves replacing dead leaves, that he had scorned as bullshit—during his time with Itachi, it had all started to make some sense. Yet Kabuto still didn’t like thinking about it connected to Konoha, only Itachi. If he thought about Konoha, Kabuto would think about the rest of the people he had been wrong about. If he thought about Konoha, Kabuto would think about—

So he had to conduct mental gymnastics for himself; not so much cognitive dissonance as cognitive separation: he turned himself in because Itachi taught him that if he went to the orphanage, he would have to live with others; that to live with and affect others was to be community, and that in community, one had roles to play. Smaller communities inhabited larger communities: the orphanage, Konoha; Konoha, the shinobi nations; the shinobi nations, the world. And Kabuto had concluded that his present role, in light of his life’s events, was to turn himself in. He didn’t like it, but he also thought that how he felt about the matter had little bearing or relevance. Surrender was necessary by default.

 _I never said this way of thinking is absolute or perfect,_ Itachi had said. _It is what helps me and what makes the most sense. I would hope that by working for each other we would eventually all be supported._

 

   

 

 

 

 

Hours pass, and no one comes to him with a threat, an ultimatum, or even food.

It would have been much more expedient to travel to the orphanage himself, to walk away from the battlefield and disappear into shadow. Even now he struggles with his decision, both because it is a new type of experience and because it goes against how he’s been living his life. It is foreign and frightening to give himself up into the hands of those he’s wronged. Thankfully, Kabuto is too tired to fully experience his emotions.

It’s dark in his cell, so Kabuto tries to sleep. He doesn’t succeed completely, but closes his eyes and relaxes as best he can. Kabuto passes in and out of consciousness, and loses track of time.

He jerks awake when he feels the ground underneath him moving, though the sensation is faint. Kabuto blinks, trying to see without enhanced vision before remembering that he’s captive in a place with dim light. He can only feel a weak, constant vibration, and occasional bumps. Maybe he’s not even moving. Maybe there’s an earthquake. Maybe someone came in and cast a genjutsu. As highly unlikely as the last possibility was, Kabuto can’t say for certain what is happening. He must be moving; it’s the most likely situation.

Kabuto notices that his breathing has become rapid while he was analyzing, and forcibly slows his rate of inhalation. He’s thought what he could about his immediate situation; it’s now time to take stock of the rest.

Since his senses feel dulled, Kabuto concludes that he was either put under genjutsu, or the cage was sealed with more than just the lack of a door. As a result of this, he has no way of figuring out where he is being taken.

He highly doubts that the destination is the orphanage.

 

   

 

 

 

 

Two years ago, a little before everything went to shit, Kabuto had been sitting on a cliff’s edge with Kakashi in an uninhabited region of the Land of Lightning. Though they were far from Kumogakure, from where they sat he could see some of the village’s mountain peaks above the clouds.

They’d crossed paths earlier, at about two in the morning. Kabuto had disinfected and bandaged a deep scrape on Kakashi’s calf. Kakashi had bought food from a small town—actual food, not the grainy, bitter soldier pills that were all the two of them usually had—and the two sat and ate. Kabuto remembers this because of the numbers: two years, two in the morning, two onigiri.

The summer was over, and the leaves were turning early. There were few trees in this land, and they’d managed to find one of them to sit under. When a dried leaf fell on his knee, Kabuto thought through the chemistry of the color change. And, by simple association, he’d thought of the village hidden in the leaves.

“Isn’t that what you’re taught,” Kabuto had said, gesturing to the leaf. It was about 3:30. They’d barely spoken at all that night until now. Kakashi looked down at Kabuto’s knee, listening silently. “At the academy. The leaves.” Kabuto glanced at the symbol on Kakashi’s hitai-ate. “The cycle.”

Kakashi was quiet. “Not too explicitly,” he finally said, and only after he had finished his food.

“Hm,” Kabuto grunted, disappointed in Kakashi’s laconic answer and the chance that he’d gotten something wrong. “Of course. Let’s train children to become killing machines and yet not tell them that they’re also going to die, and quite soon.”

Kakashi shrugged and turned back to where they both had been looking earlier, the expanse of craggy rock that led to the waters outside Kumo. “Most graduates go on to stay in the village and do clerical work. It’s probably a morale recipe. Keep them happy and hopeful so that when others return from the field, they feel validated by their former classmates’ support. And the paperwork gets done, the cogs move, the machine runs smoothly.”

“I know the governmental and administrative systems of your village,” Kabuto said.

Nudging Kabuto’s leg with his foot, Kakashi caused the leaf to fall off Kabuto’s knee on onto the rock surface. “ _Your_ village, for a time,” he had said quietly. The wind began to pull at the leaf, now no longer sheltered by Kabuto’s body as it had been before, and soon it was drawn behind them.

“Konoha was never my village,” Kabuto said, not without a trace of bitterness. “It will never be my village. And that’s beside the point. I want you to remind me of the saying.”

For the first time that evening, he turned and met Kakashi’s eyes. Kakashi had pulled down his mask to eat, and there was rice stuck to his cheek, just below the scar that bisected Uchiha Obito’s eye. Kabuto reached out and brushed the grains off with his thumb. Kakashi caught his hand, and though Kabuto’s eyes narrowed, Kakashi didn’t let go. Neither did Kabuto pull his hand away, however.

“The next generation will always surpass the previous one,” Kakashi said, “it goes something like that. New leaves replace the fallen.”

“And it’s your job to fall?” Kabuto said. He knew he was being harsh. He knew Sarutobi Asuma had passed not too long ago. “So your students can walk on your corpse?”

Kakashi’s expression remained unchanged. Kabuto knew that his attitude rarely fazed Kakashi anymore, and the jounin was so drawn into himself this evening that Kabuto was surprised Kakashi was even speaking to him.

“I think the village teachings recognize that children literally are the future,” Kakashi said, “and no matter what stage of the present we occupy, we have to support that future.” Kabuto looked away as Kakashi spoke, feeling suddenly and uncomfortably ashamed. “Time supports all parts of itself,” Kakashi added. Kabuto took his hand back when Kakashi released his hold and rested it on his thigh, his palm and fingers curved as if cupping his stomach protectively.

Neither of them spoke again until the sky began to lighten. When it did, Kabuto briefly examined Kakashi’s calf (though doing so was unnecessary and both of them knew this) and stood, preparing to head southwest, away from Kakashi’s northeast trajectory.

“Kabuto,” Kakashi had called, but Kabuto didn’t turn around. 

He stopped walking, however. His open ears were a vulnerability he was affording Kakashi too often these days.

“You’re part of time, too,” Kakashi had said.

 

   

 

 

 

 

Kabuto doesn’t want to think about the vision he had while stuck in the infinite tsukuyomi because it goes like this:

He wakes up. It is morning. The ninken are snoring and snuffling in a heap somewhere on the floor in the bedroom. It’s his day off.

Kabuto can hear someone moving about in the kitchen, footsteps and clinking of dishes, and rolls over onto his stomach. He brushes the palm of his right hand over the bed, feeling the residual warmth on the sheets. Kabuto smiles and turns to lie on his side, closing his eyes.

The door opens and Kabuto hears footsteps once more, but now in the bedroom, as well as the clicking of claws on the floor that means that at least one of the ninken is up and about. Two soft thuds indicate two things have been set down. The empty space next to him in the bed dips as a body sits in it (he knows from chakra signature and scent it’s _Kakashi_ ). A hand moves his bangs away from his forehead, long fingers lingering in his hair before brushing down his cheek.

“I’m asleep,” Kabuto murmurs. “I am not awake.”

He feels Kakashi lie down on top of the sheets, long body curling toward him (Kabuto knows this second part because he has not-so-covertly opened one eye). Kabuto’s mouth is kissed twice, the second lingering _far_ too long to leave him without a third.

“Your mom’s here,” Kakashi says, his voice a quiet rumble.

Kabuto responds with a soft grunt of acknowledgement, not moving despite the excitement surging through his chest. He opens his eyes. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate someone forcing another someone to make sure the bed in the guest room was made with clean sheets, then.”

“ _She_ is currently despairing at _someone’s_ inability to properly stock a kitchen,” Kakashi says. “I distracted her with coffee for the moment.”

Kabuto huffs. “Please. We’re going grocery shopping today.” He sits up and Kakashi follows suit, handing Kabuto one of the mugs of coffee he’d set down on the windowsill. Kabuto crosses his legs and drinks from the mug while Kakashi looks him over intently.

After a minute of this, Kabuto looks at Kakashi out of the corner of his eye. “It was just a cold,” he says, his tone more condescending than he intends.

“I don’t fuck with illnesses,” Kakashi says, utterly serious, as he shines a light into Kabuto's ear and peers inside it as if he knew anything about medical examinations.

Kabuto exhales. “I know. You clean the kitchen, bathroom, and _doorknobs_ neurotically and yet you live with eight filthy dogs and kiss me when I'm sick.” One of the said dogs barked in reply. “Oh, shut up.”

“Well, he has two doctors with him now,” Nonou says, leaning against the open door frame. Both men’s gazes and attention snap to her when she speaks. “I think he’ll be just fine.”

“Good morning, mother,” Kabuto says. His voice and smile are shy and soft; full with joy and gratitude as he is every time he sees her, just like when he opened his eyes on that battlefield and saw her for the first time.

   

   

 

 

 

 

When Kabuto opens his eyes—what must be days later—and for the first time sees the outside world through the cage’s bars instead of darkness, his vision meets the sun rising over what’s left of the stone faces in Konoha.

At the sight, the genjutsu’s dream snaps to the forefront of his mind. With it comes a phantom feeling like a long, thin blade has slipped into his belly, just under his ribs. He fights the coldness and contains the feeling as best he can, and he’s mostly certain that none of the shinobi around him—his guards?—are paying attention to the way his face twitches as he tries to control his expression.

He has been literally carted to Konoha. Whatever lies next for him, he’ll have to face it here.

“Taking in the sights?”

Kabuto suppresses a flinch. He turns toward the voice, and sees Tsunade. Her clothes are fresher than they were on the battlefield, but her artificial youth still looks worse for wear. She must have just arrived, as well. They’re just outside the village gates.

“Lord Fifth,” Kabuto says, inclining his head in respect.

Tsunade frowns down at him, unimpressed. “Save it.” She turns and barks, “Shizune!”

The Hokage’s assistant rushes over to the two of them (well, the two of them plus the guards around Kabuto’s cage, not to mention what number of ANBU must be posted in the trees). Her hands are full of papers, and a small pig trails behind her. The pink-haired girl from Kakashi’s team, Haruno Sakura, runs to join them as well.

“Shizune,” Tsunade addresses her assistant. “Confirm from Ibiki that the holding area is ready. Prepare the necessities.”

“Of course, Lord Fifth.” Shizune nods. She glances at Kabuto briefly, her eyes hard, and heads off.

Tsunade looks at Sakura, who has said nothing. Kabuto follows her eyes and notices that Sakura has been staring at him.

She is so different from the last time he’d seen her up close, worlds—no, galaxies—away from the Chuunin exams. And yet still far still from when the new Team Kakashi (sans Kakashi) had come for Sasuke with Sai. Kabuto notices that she bears the same green diamond on her forehead as her master. _Impressive_ , he can’t help but think.

“Did you save Sasuke,” Sakura says, not a question but a demand. Her tone isn’t as cold as Tsunade’s, but it contains the same steel. “After Madara—”

“Yes,” Kabuto replies. Shit, he probably shouldn’t have cut her off, certainly not in front of the Hokage—

Surprisingly, Sakura bows to him. “Thank you.”

It’s not fully to the waist, but it’s still stiff and with an air of respect. Kabuto blinks at her, eyes widening despite himself. But how could she have guessed that he…?

Sakura straightens and looks at him coolly. Kabuto says nothing—one can’t quite say “you’re welcome” for saving one life despite the countless others slaughtered. Sakura looks at Tsunade, who nods sharply. “Go, Sakura,” Tsunade says, and Sakura leaves them.

Tsunade looks back at Kabuto. “You will be imprisoned. There will be meetings, and, I expect, calls for your death.” Her eyes narrow at him. “If you’re playing at something, you’ve got a slim chance.”

Kabuto swallows. “I’m not playing at anything. My aim is unchanged.”

“Right, you want to go to that orphanage,” Tsunade says, her tone bitter, and suddenly laughs. And aide walks up to her, but she ignores them, and fixes Kabuto with a hard glare. “This mess is insulting.”

“I understand that I don’t have the right to choose what happens with my life anymore,” Kabuto interjects, and it catches her off guard. She stares at him. “As I said before, I surrendered to avoid more conflict and to—”

“I don’t have time for this,” Tsunade says dismissively, and begins walking away. The shinobi that had come up to the two of them glances fearfully at Kabuto, and then hurries to catch up with the Hokage. 

Kabuto curls his hands into fists and then slowly relaxes them, his palms pressing flat against his thighs. So, there will be discussions of what to do with him, perhaps some sort of trial, but it might just be a show while his execution is swiftly arranged.

Why was he in Konoha? What had happened with the nations? Were they still unified, or now that the war was over, had everyone gone back to their respective villages? Yet, if he was going to die soon, figuring out the state of the world wasn’t something he could be concerned with.

The gravity of his situation hits him hard, and with it comes cold fear. It had been easier to trust in his decision when he was alone, before he’d surrendered, and even in the darkness of the past few days. Now, reality stared at him through the faces of Tsunade, Shizune, Sakura, and the rest of the Konoha shinobi. The small crowd of ninja around Kabuto stare at him, their gazes heavy, and Kabuto stares back, unsure whether he should look away instead.

Before he can make his decision, a thick tarp is thrown over the cage, and his surroundings turn to darkness.

Kabuto touches his face. Okay. His sight is just blocked, he hasn't been—


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the fact that I’m writing again— and am excited about writing again— is due in great part to my friends. thank you. ♥

 

 

 

Kabuto can’t hear much—to call his senses muted would be an understatement—but occasionally, he hears snippets of conversation. 

_“… not as tall as …”_

He can almost feel hands on his skin. He is not sure if he is awake or if he has fallen asleep. He thinks he is in a room, but his brain doesn’t make the next leap to answer _why_ he thinks so, or _where_ this room could be.

 _“Hey, I thought he was supposed to have scales and horns? … looks … a normal guy.”_  
_“ … keep … voice down … ”  
_ _“… gives me the creeps …”_

Every spy, every ninja—no, every _person_ , really—knows the cardinal rule: _do not get caught_. 

There were ways of getting caught that were playing the situation into your own hands. You could get caught if you could serve as a distraction. You could get caught if it was just a game between children. You could get caught if it would spare your comrades. For spies, specifically: you could get caught if you meant to be, if that was the best way to infiltrate your target, but you must always, _always_ have an escape route.

 _Do not get caught_ was easy to follow because it had security on its side—logically, it was sensible enough to understand that getting caught was _bad_ , but add the threat of injury, almost certain death, and _don’t get caught_ could grow into instinct. 

 _“Hey, be careful! We’re not allowed to kill him.”  
_ _“Would the higher-ups really care?”_

 _Konoha_ , Kabuto’s mind somehow finds. _Konoha_. _Konoha_. He holds onto the word amidst the darkness that fills the rest of his consciousness. _Konoha._ He sees a sliver of light; for a moment his vision is not wholly blackness. Leaves. Hidden in the—

The thing about _don’t get caught_ , for Kabuto, was that it wasn’t something he’d first learned in formal training. Not from ROOT, where his life in espionage started, not from Orochimaru, not even from his days playing idiot through the Academy and Chuunin exams.

He’d first learned it from Mother.

 

   

 

 

 

 

Mother had been filling out paperwork; long, complicated forms that Kabuto didn’t think he’d ever understand. Another child had given him a dirty look as he’d pushed open the door to her office, cradling a rabbit to his chest. He’d never _meant_ to become her favorite, he could remember himself thinking sourly. 

“Yes, Kabuto? What is it?”

She’d told him that she’d first learned practicing on fish, and seconds later, admitted with a soft smile that that had been a lie. Well, he didn’t know _what_ the truth had been, and he didn’t have a fish, so maybe—maybe a rabbit—it had taken him all afternoon to catch it, it just had to—maybe—

“Mother,” Kabuto had announced, barely keeping himself from tripping over his robes as he ran up to her. “I have something to show you!”

Mother had glanced up at the clock, but before he could remind her that the both of them had plenty of time before dinner, she’d turned back to him and folded her hands in her lap. “Alright, Kabuto,” she’d said, “what do you have?”

“Hold this.” He handed her the small creature, taking care to be gentle with its injured legs, and rushed to pull one of the room’s stools next to her seat. “Okay. Please set the rabbit down.”

She watched him carefully, but did as he asked. Kabuto held his hands out in front of himself, rolled up his sleeves, and then carefully formed the seals she’d taught him. As a green glow slowly surrounded his hands, Kabuto’s heart began to pound.

(In retrospect, the success of this venture went to Nonou. It was she who knew how to hold a frightened animal. Treating a flailing patient could be impossible for any medic, regardless of skill level.)

He could see— _no_ , he could _feel—_ the web of chakra, inexplicably interwoven with neural pathways and veins. Kabuto contained his excitement as best he could. He pushed the dizzying feeling to the back of his mind, and focused only on _heal_ and _repair_. Within minutes, the tears in the ligaments had all but disappeared, the tissue having knitted itself back together under his palms.

The glow around his hands faded. Kabuto looked up at Mother with a tentative smile, eager for her approval. But Nonou’s eyes were wide and afraid, and her hands shook.

(The rabbit had taken the chance and hopped out of her loosened grip, making its way out the door and into the hallway on its now-functional legs.)

“I’m—” Kabuto sputtered an apology, suddenly panicked. “I’m sorry!” He didn’t know what he’d done wrong.

At the sound of Kabuto’s voice, Nonou straightened, and seemed to come back to herself. She cupped Kabuto’s cheek in a palm, and gave him a forced smile. “No, Kabuto. That was wonderful. You learned what I showed you and taught yourself more very quickly, didn’t you?”

Kabuto blushed and nodded, the beginnings of pride curling slowly in his chest. He watched Mother closely; worried that he’d upset her.

Nonou patted his cheek, almost stroking it, and her smile turned sad. “Kabuto…” she began, her voice quiet, nearly a murmur, “have you shown this to anyone else?”

His eyes widened, and he felt the thumping of his heart ( _pulse_ , he remembered being told) speed up in his ears. Urushi _did_ like to follow him around and say weird things like he was Kabuto’s “superior,” but Kabuto was faster, smaller, and good at hiding! Urushi couldn’t have seen that much! Kabuto shook his head from side to side so quickly that his sight blurred. 

“Okay,” Nonou said gently. She placed a hand on his hair and steadied his shaking head. Kabuto looked up at her from behind too-big glasses, still unsure.

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” Nonou continued. She took one of Kabuto’s hands between her own, and looked to the side for a moment before turning back to Kabuto. Her expression was very serious.

“This,” she spoke slowly, “is between us. Alright, Kabuto?”

He nodded.

The pace of her words grew faster. “No one else can see this. Only show me. I’ll help you learn and develop the skill, but be certain to only show me.” 

He nodded again, more fervently, glasses nearly bouncing on his nose.

Nonou reached for him, and Kabuto came forward dutifully. She ran her palm over his head with one hand, almost petting him. Even now, Kabuto can remember that her hand was shaking, though her other hand, gripping his shoulder tightly, was completely still.

“Don’t let anyone see you,” Nonou said, her voice falling to a whisper.

“Yes, Mother.”

 

   

 

 

 

 

Kabuto can’t breathe.

He can open his eyes and see light from a small window and he can feel rough stone underneath his back but he _can’t breathe._ Kabuto panics, hands flying to his open mouth, his throat; terrified mind shifting into overdrive to solve the problem. Blocked airway? No, no way he could tell from here, and besides, oxygen would run out, he’d—

Kabuto jerks his head back and presses the ball of his hand underneath his chin, the fingers of his free hand reaching inside his mouth. If his airway were blocked, this would help, and yet—

He slowly began to feel cold air on the roof of his mouth and back into his throat. Wait. His chest was heaving, he could feel it rising and falling underneath his arms. His tongue wasn’t stuck. Wait, so— 

His mouth wasn’t too dry yet—and he was definitely breathing, this he now knew and was slowly beginning to feel, so why—

With the return of taste came his sense of smell, and Kabuto was struck by a particular scent on the base of his palm: _ink_.

The smell wasn’t anything like fresh ink, but it was potent, and coming from somewhere in the room. Gods— no, it was coming _from_ _him_ , it was _on_ him, all over his hands and his arms and probably over the rest of his body—

 _Seals_ , Kabuto suddenly realizes, tears pricking his eyes. _Of course._  

He presses the back of a hand across his eyes to rub away the moisture, and a something hard strikes his cheek. Kabuto flinches and pulls his hand away to see that both of his wrists are encased in tough shackles connected by a heavy chain. Looking down, he can also see that he’d struck the top of his chest and shoulders with the chain in his panic, the skin rising in fresh, reddening welts. Looking closer, he notices patterns of what seem to be fine cracks in the surface of the shackles, but are actually thin lines. Not just lines, patterns. _More seals_.

Being without chakra was not wholly new to Kabuto. He’d been captured before once, when he was still in ROOT and made a fledgling's mistake. He’d also been conditioned in Oto. But now, it wasn’t as if his chakra had been temporarily locked away—it was as if it’d been taken from him. Kabuto _can’t feel any chakra at all_ , let alone access his own. He’d felt chakra his entire life, studied its flow with his eyes closed and learned the rhythm it pulsed through bodies, and now… nothing.

Kabuto closes his eyes and presses his lips together, biting down on the flesh of his mouth to keep himself from making a sound. He couldn’t keep himself from shaking, however, and was immensely relieved that wherever he was, he was alone.

Even corpses had whispers of chakra. The coils took time to empty; it would be days until the energy drained out. Sometimes weeks. Whether Kabuto has any or not, he can’t tell. He has to use his pulse and breathing, as well as the cold touch of the floor, to confirm to himself that he is alive—that he is living, and present in the world, not just in a dream.

His consciousness was now limited to this room, a small cell with a drain in the corner and nothing else, in some part of Konoha. Kabuto can see that the door has its own window, about eye-level if he were standing, but he cannot stand. His ankles are also bound, and their chain is connected to a ring welded into the floor.

Kabuto opens his eyes, and tries to console himself with the fact that he is dressed. Rough, shapeless cotton, but clothes nonetheless. He ignores the drops of liquid— _tears_ —coming from his eyes, and presses his hands together, willing them to stop shaking.

They do not.

 

   

 

 

 

 

“What’s with you?”

Kabuto shakes the hair out of his eyes and rolls off of Kakashi. He lies on his back in Kakashi’s bed. He is shirtless. They are in Konoha, in Kakashi’s apartment, to be exact, and it is very late.

Kabuto waits for Kakashi to look at him so he can read his expression. Kakashi moves slowly as he sits up, his eyes unreadable—face unreadable under that mask. Kabuto tilts his head to the side, against the sheets, unsure of which feeling to project.

Kakashi looks down at him, and in the shadows cast from the outside streetlamps Kabuto sees the faint smile hidden behind the fabric on Kakashi’s face. Kabuto lets his own lips stretch, his mouth open, as he tries on the lazy smile he’s seen Kakashi wear.

He is surprised to find how naturally the motion feels to him, in this moment. The alarm bells that go off in his mind don’t kill his smile, though—if anything, it grows wider.

“No answer,” Kakashi quietly comments. He is out of his vest and forehead protector, and his pants hang low on his hips. His shirt has ridden up; Kabuto can see the sliver of skin over Kakashi’s hip. Kabuto can also see that Kakashi is still smiling. His own smile turns into a sharp grin, more of a smirk, and he moves to lie on his side. His eyes are bright and never leave Kakashi’s. (Kakashi’s eyes are rarely bright, but they are always, always watching.)

The bed dips behind Kabuto when Kakashi moves, placing his hands on either side of Kabuto’s shoulders, effectively bracketing him in with his arms, his body held suspended above him. Kabuto’s pulse speeds up and nearly stutters with excitement. For a moment, his eyes leave Kakashi’s—

—and it should be nothing—

—but it isn’t nothing, and Kabuto knows, and Kakashi knows.

Kakashi dips his head. He shifts his weight to rest on his forearms and he is closer, nosing Kabuto’s hair, his scent and warmth filling Kabuto’s senses. Kabuto closes his eyes and inhales the air deeply, exhales in a sigh.

“I think this gets you off,” Kakashi says into Kabuto’s ear, voice low. His words are heavy and humid from his breath. Kabuto barely suppresses a shiver.

He has let Kakashi run things for too long tonight. Kabuto moves so he is lying on his back and looking up at Kakashi, and asks, “what gets me off?” He looks up at Kakashi and blinks slowly, coyly.

Kakashi pulls down his mask. His grin is wolfish, all teeth. “Doing this here,” he answers.

“What is it that I’m doing here?” Kabuto laughs softly. He lifts an arm and makes to pull Kakashi down by his neck, but Kakashi turns his head and presses his open mouth against Kabuto’s wrist, works his jaw in a wet kiss up his arm and the base of his palm. Kabuto’s breath catches.

He isn’t going to win this little game, Kabuto realizes as Kakashi looks down at him. In the dark of not-yet-morning, the sharingan glows with an otherworldly light.

“It’s fun, isn’t it?” Kabuto hears himself confess. The eyelid over the sharingan slides closed, and Kabuto releases a breath. “To do this— to do this _here_.”

“Here,” Kakashi repeats neutrally, and bends his neck, offering Kabuto the hold he was seeking earlier. Kabuto pulls Kakashi closer immediately, presses their mouths together. One of Kakashi’s hands has worked its way underneath clothing to grip Kabuto’s bare thigh, and his fingers are hot against his skin.

“Under Konoha’s nose,” Kabuto finishes, doesn’t add _that very Konoha I helped bring down_ because he knows Kakashi will waste no time before countering _and then fled_ _before the deed was done_.

At that time, Kakashi didn’t say that technically Kabuto wasn’t “under Konoha’s nose,” considering he was very literally in the hands of one of its top shinobi. Kabuto remembers thinking that himself, though—looking up into Kakashi’s eyes and wondering if Kakashi was thinking similarly. He had felt that Kakashi was, and a cold fear settling in his bones as he remembered the words _don’t let anyone see you. don’t get caught._

But in the end Kakashi didn’t say anything. He just watched Kabuto with that careful gaze of his before kissing him hard, biting his lips to shed blood.

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

The only light in Kabuto’s cell comes from the the door’s small window, and even then, it isn’t much. When he has calmed himself enough to move out of _react_ to _asses,_ the dim light is remarkably soporific. Kabuto pulls himself up into the best crosslegged pose he can manage with the chains. In the limited reality of the room he registers the feeling of soreness throughout his body, the tightness of the dry skin of his face, and the painful ache of hunger he finds most prominently in his stomach, the inside of his forearms, and behind his eyes.

As adrenaline drains, so does his strength. Kabuto’s head tips forward, his torso following with it. He just barely catches his weight with his palms, gripping tightly to his knees. His fingers lose their hold and he slides slowly forward.

Kabuto lets his body move, this time. He focuses on his breathing and the burn of his dry throat. He counts number sequences in his head. Anything but the panic still boiling low in his gut. Anything but the shame and frustration at being laid so low—at being unable to fully commit to the decision he has made.

At least he was alone.

 _Alone_. Kabuto sucks in a harsh breath and falls forward. He hunches over on the ground, his forehead pressed to the cold concrete. Slowly, he rolls to his side, back to the door. He covers his face with his hands, and thinks: _sleep_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

By some kindness of fate, he did lose consciousness.

Kabuto wakes to the sounds of a lock turning, muffled voices, the thud of heavy boots and the scrape of something on concrete. He lies still as his eyes adjust, his head foggy from sleep.

The door shuts heavily. “I know you’re awake, Yakushi.” The voice is low and firm, male, authoritative.

“Morino-san,” Kabuto says, tongue thick in his mouth. His memory recognizes the voice’s owner, even if his senses send confused signals to his brain: _disembodied? no chakra detected?_ Kabuto forces himself to turn and sit despite his unease, and meets the eyes of Morino Ibiki.

Instinct tells him this Ibiki standing before him is _not-person_. Ninja masked their chakra, went undetected, certainly—but you can’t mask it this close. Kabuto tries to tell himself he’s just deaf, just lost a sense, and he’s not convinced, but he can always pretend.

Kabuto bends his neck. Cajoling phrases rise up his throat, but he swallows them down. His usual jeers should have no place here. He’s not Yakushi Kabuto, spy and right hand of Orochimaru anymore. He is not a captured prize. Ibiki or not-Ibiki, person or not-person, Kabuto still has surrendered. He cannot afford mistakes, even at the cost of honesty.

Ibiki is in no mood for bows, it appears, as his frown has shades of anger when Kabuto raises his head. Kabuto begins to say “good morning,” but stops, remembering suddenly that he has little grasp of the time or day. He closes his mouth, and waits. Ibiki watches him silently.

Moments pass, then Ibiki holds forth a pair of round glasses. Kabuto stares at them, and quickly realizes they are his. He is suddenly very grateful that he was not wearing them. They would have been smashed in his earlier panic.

Kabuto looks at Ibiki’s face cautiously before reaching out for his glasses. Ibiki drops them into Kabuto’s palms, and Kabuto fights the urge to hold them against his chest. Their presence is soothing, and Kabuto wastes no time in slipping them on. He wonders why Ibiki would return them. Surely he was inspected. Surely the processing team had found he didn’t need them to correct his vision. It is very out of character for Kabuto’s understanding of Ibiki.

“I hear you willfully surrendered,” Ibiki says next. His words are hard—Kabuto notes that this is not a casual conversation. He also sets a small bowl of rice and cooked fish on the floor in front of Kabuto, however, and sits backwards in a chair he must have dragged in when he arrived, crossing his arms and resting them on the chair’s back.

Kabuto nods. He glances at the bowl, and presses his hands against his thighs.

He is certain Ibiki can see his hesitation about the food. “ _Did_ you surrender?” Ibiki asks again. “I’d like to get everyone’s terms clear.” Kabuto looks back at him, thinks _scars, scar tissue, live tissue, person._

Kabuto permits himself to pick up the bowl of food. He holds the bowl in a palm and studies Ibiki’s scarred face, both to trick himself into the reality of his surroundings and to read what he can of the other man’s intentions. _He means to humiliate me_ , he thinks.

“Completely,” Kabuto finally answers, and scoops some rice into his free hand. The food is cold. His stomach growls. He needs to eat, and so he does. The rice sticks in his dry throat.

“Ah,” Ibiki suddenly says, as if remembering something, “this is also for you.” He reaches into a pocket of his long coat and pulls out a thick, plastic bottle of clear liquid. Ibiki tosses the bottle toward Kabuto and, as his hands are full, it knocks against his chest, falling into his lap. He sets the bowl down and unscrews the cap of the bottle. It looks like water and has no smell, and he is very thirsty.

“It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Ibiki says easily, but not until Kabuto has taken a drink. He crosses his arms and rests them against the chair again. “I’m not allowed to do that with you.”

“Right now,” Kabuto says mildly, and wipes his mouth with his forearm. His pulse jumps. He doesn’t truly know how to act here. He eats more of rice, starts on the fish.

Ibiki chuckles in agreement. “True.”

“Would you say it’s only a matter of time?” Kabuto asks. As he eats and talks, he begins to feel a little more solid. The conversation with Ibiki is a reality the two of them share, and placates his worried senses a little. He is too used to sensing chakra. If he survives past whatever in in store for him, Kabuto decides, he’ll need to train.

“Until you die?” Ibiki rubs at his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t control all of those factors. I can’t say.”

 _You won’t say_ , Kabuto thinks, meeting Ibiki’s eyes again. “In any case,” he says, “I’m a little surprised that the first person I’m seeing is you.”

“You should be flattered.” Ibiki’s eyes narrow slightly. The twin slashes across his face crumple. “I wouldn’t let my subordinates take the risk.”

 _Risk_ , Kabuto thinks incredulously. “I thought death was my sole fate in this scenario,” he comments before he can think better of holding his tongue, his words not without bite. His heart briefly pounds. He’s just lost this round.

Ibiki smiles. The torture-master curls one of his hands into a fist, as if to strike Kabuto were he close enough, but then relaxes it. “I wish I could enjoy this,” Ibiki laughs, his tone bitter. “Years ago I would have, but I think now you’ve taken all the satisfaction out of it.”

 _Sorry_ , Kabuto thinks, and bites his tongue. Instead of speaking, he finishes the last of the rice. When there is no more food, he licks his fingers, and tastes dust. Ibiki watches him all throughout. Kabuto wishes his skin wouldn’t crawl as it does, then tries to ignore the wish. He can’t focus on how he is feeling. He has to push himself to play politeness, if just for one last time.

Kabuto sets the empty bowl aside. He finds himself oddly uninterested in what Konoha has in store for him next. The present is hard enough to hang onto. He curls his hands into loose fists and braces some of his weight on his thighs

It is Ibiki who finally breaks the silence. “Hundreds died.”

“Thousands,” Kabuto corrects quietly, a sick heaviness settling in his stomach. His voice doesn’t waver, but he cannot meet Ibiki’s eyes. He also cannot ignore the facts.

“Well,” he hears Ibiki say, “the bodies are still being counted.”

“Then it’s tens of thousands,” Kabuto finds himself saying, and this time his voice does crack. With great effort, he lifts his head. “I take responsibility.”

“Responsibility…” Ibiki repeats, the word trailing off. There is scorn and disbelief hidden in his tone, Kabuto can hear it.

After a long moment, he stands. Kabuto blinks hard so that he does not flinch. He can tell that Ibiki is angry. “Good,” Ibiki says, “because it is your fault.”

There is a knock on the door. Ibiki mutters something unkind as he walks over to open it, and the only word Kabuto catches is “kid.”

A team of medics stands outside the doorway. Kabuto looks at them and sees fear in their eyes. When Ibiki turns, he sees more of them beyond the door and sees hatred. He suddenly remembers that he is twenty-four years old, and feels terribly young. One of the medics hands Ibiki a pair of gloves, and then a syringe.

Ibiki turns back to him. “Time to go back to sleep, Yakushi.”

Kabuto inclines his head obediently, lifts his hand when Ibiki reaches for it.

In the seconds before he is drugged, he thinks of Itachi again. This time, it is not without resentment.

 

   

 

 

 

 

Tsunade stands, hands on her hips, in one of the less known-rooms of Konoha’s hospital. _Hospitals,_ she corrects herself. The majority of the treatment rooms were underground—as were the cells for prisoners in transition. This room was one of the smaller set aside for emergency assessment, occasionally for surgery. A guard team would see that one would be permitted into the hallways around it, let alone come near it.

She looks down at the unconscious man on the table before her. Her eyes narrow. _Boy_ , she thinks, not a man. Yakushi Kabuto was thin, pale, and weak from stress. Ibiki had administered a powerful sedative; he wouldn’t be waking up anytime soon. Tsunade had order him strapped to be him to the table anyway. The maelstrom of panicked chakra that slammed against her senses when she’d entered the room had no way of affecting her, it was held back by the barriers on his cuffs and skin. Tsunade had quickly scribbled more seals on thin paper anyway, more and more until the presence of the man’s chakra had shrunk to a delicate pulse, barely a heartbeat. She perfected the seals, imbued them with her own chakra, and then painstakingly copied them onto his skin and shackles multiple times.

The boy that looked like anything but a threat was the reason her village was wounded and raw, and she would bury his chakra deep, strip him of whatever resources she could. As tired as Tsunade was, and as confused by his actions as she was, she couldn’t afford to do anything less.

Tsunade brushes hair away from the side of her face.

She closes her eyes. The real struggle was not killing him on the spot.

His death would be little, if any, revenge, and his knowledge, his skills—they were untapped, as far as Konoha resources went. If the bureaucratic nonsense of “trials” the elders were so keen on were somehow mercifully short, Tsunade might beat the medical genius out of him. She doubted she would be that lucky.

Tsunade walks around the table Kabuto is laid out on and checks the monitors that beep out his vital signs. She has done everything here herself, and the readouts don’t surprise her. As she connects a fresh bag of nutritional formulae, she hears the soft thuds of crutches in the hallway outside, and feels a familiar chakra signature coming toward her.

“I specifically requested that no one come down here, Hatake,” Tsunade says, and turns to face the doorway. She expects a lazy shrug, a mild blink, maybe even a joke, but Kakashi doesn’t respond. For a long second, he stands in the doorway, staring at the body on the table. She can practically feel his pulse jumping in shock.

Tsunade presses her lips together and waits. She can give Kakashi time.

“Where—” he finally speaks, voice hoarse, “I want to see my kids.” Only the skin around Kakashi’s eyes is exposed. The rest of him is covered in mask or bandage (Tsunade can see that he didn’t bother properly unclipping his own restraints when he left his room without authorization, as half of them dangle from ripped cloth), and even with crutches, he is leaning against the doorframe to support himself.

“Naruto and Sasuke need to heal for months, maybe a year,” Tsunade says. It’s a kinder response than _no_. “I have to take care of _this_ before you can see them.” Tsunade moves her palm in the air and vaguely gestures toward Yakushi. Kakashi’s tired eyes follow the movement of her hand. Tsunade shakes her head and laughs. What a damn mess.

“Sakura kept insisting she’d help with the assessment,” Tsunade says when Kakashi clearly has no words to offer. “I refused. She needs to rest.” This was Tsunade’s task, the Hokage’s burden alone. “I don’t want her to do this.”

Kakashi swallows. “Can I see her?” he asks. His eyes are on Yakushi.

“ _This_ is the perk of the job,” Tsunade says abruptly, her tone firm enough that Kakashi’s attention snaps back to her. He is her first choice, her _only_ choice for a successor.

Perhaps now is not the time, she concedes. Kakashi isn’t saying anything. His arms are trembling faintly from the sheer exertion of holding himself upright.

“You know where they are,” she sighs. “Go."


End file.
